


Shoot First

by Kalloway



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 15:56:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12214074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalloway/pseuds/Kalloway
Summary: Roy Fokker was pretty damned sure that he would rather get shot at on a daily basis than deal with some of the waves of idiotic cadets coming through the Garrison.





	Shoot First

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taichara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/gifts).



Those who could, did. Those who were too mangled and therefore deemed incapable of competently doing for long periods of time and under intense pressure... They taught. 

Roy Fokker was pretty damned sure that he would rather get shot at on a daily basis than deal with some of the waves of idiotic cadets coming through the Garrison. It would be better for his nerves, for starters. Had he been that stupid once? (He never answered that question, because he did know better.) 

But with more than a decade of experience in the air and a shiny new bionic knee and accompanying rod holding his left leg together, his choices were limited and Roy knew it. Even civilian and commercial organizations had their standards of fitness... The Galaxy Garrison wanted him to stick around and he saw no real reason not to. 

The day would come when he'd have to train cadets to fly the nightmares he'd been testing when everything decided to go horribly wrong. That day would involve a lot of booze and the full range of his vocabulary, Roy was sure. 

But this wasn't that day. No, this was just another day, another new class, and a bunch of enthusiastic kids who probably thought they were hot shit for their high scores on their local arcade's dogfight simulator. Well, they'd lose that attitude quickly enough... 

Tablet in hand, Roy walked into his classroom exactly one minute before class was scheduled to begin and wrote his name on the smartboard. At least the cadets quieted down quickly and stared at him with something approaching curious respect. That was one up on the previous year. 

He looked at the room and did a quick headcount. Thirty. It was a good number for teams, but a horrible number for teaching. Well, they'd be out of his hands before they got into the really gritty stuff anyway. 

"Stand and number off from one to ten," Roy said firmly. 

"Don't you want to call roll first?" one girl asked as she stood. 

"No," Roy replied. Maybe he'd overestimated them.

"One," the first boy in the first row began.

"Two," the girl beside him continued. 

When they'd finished, Roy stared at them all for a long moment. 

"Tens sit down," he said, finally, just when it looked like they were getting antsy. The ensuing confused stares were almost enjoyable. But those three students sat quietly, half-looking like they'd done something wrong. 

"That's how many of you won't finish the program, for any number of reasons," Roy explained. "On average.

"Everyone else who's an even number, you can sit down too. You might make it off-planet once or twice in your lives, but you're probably going to end up in support roles here on Earth.

"And there's nothing wrong with that," he added when he saw disappointed faces. Did they think he was making predictions for them personally? 

That left fifteen amusingly-nervous students standing and staring at him. One girl was fidgeting visibly and looked like she was a little green. Hopefully that was just the cafeteria food. 

"Nines and, oh, fives, why don't you sit. You'll settle into roles on our many space stations and outposts. You might even get to see Mars. But you're sitting anyway..."

"But..." one boy started to protest. 

"Sit," his already-sitting friend whispered loudly and reached to tug at his uniform jacket. 

Roy chuckled. "Threes, have a seat! Your career will be cut short by injury, death, or a medical condition not conducive to remaining in space." 

Oh, he knew that one all too well. 

"Sevens, you're going to have a short but decent career, go on a few missions, explore some big floating rocks, and then jump ship for big civilian or commercial dollars. Now sit." 

Who was left? Two boys and a girl, all staring, though one seemed to be nearly jumping up and down. Did they really not understand that he was not making predictions?! (He wouldn't have, anyway - it was never, ever the most likely ones, which was always amusing. And yet again, Roy took a long moment to not think about himself.)

"You three. You represent the percentage that'll still be out there furthering science and exploration twenty years from now. Good job. Now sit down."

"But-- don't we get something?" the one boy asked. The one who was nearly jumping up and down. 

"I don't even know your name," Roy reminded him. 

"It's Lance--"

"Thank you for volunteering to take the classroom garbage and recycling to be processed this afternoon, Lance," Roy interrupted flatly. Yes, it was a little too easy and possibly a tiny bit mean, but they were all going to have to understand that instructions and orders were intended as absolute, even if the end result wasn't entirely pleasant. 

The other two students quickly sat. 

"But..."

"For the whole wing."

"Isn't there a robot that does that?" someone else asked. One of the boys who'd sat right away, Roy thought.

"Name?" Roy questioned. 

"Max..."

"It won't be in service because you'll be doing its weekly preventative maintenance." 

Unsurprisingly, nobody else spoke up. In a way, it was good. He only had five more potential punishments lined up without getting too creative. (And the one he'd always gotten was now illegal, unfortunately. Maybe he had been a little on the undisciplined side from time to time, but...)

"Now, let's quickly take roll. We have a lot to cover and you have a lot to learn..."

Roy was pretty sure he'd be able to snag a bit of simulator time later, between making sure trash was taken care of and the poor KPX-18 sanitation robot was still in working order after being cleaned and serviced. He was going to need it. It wasn't quite the same, but neither was his leg and he was pretty sure that it'd feel good to get shot at just the same.


End file.
